


Coincidence

by manach (aistreach)



Category: Arthur Conan Doyle - Sherlock Holmes series
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 19:08:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aistreach/pseuds/manach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes lets no "coincidence" go un-investigated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coincidence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kantayra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantayra/gifts).



I cannot look back on events of the winter of 1881 without being drawn to the curious initiation of the partnership between myself and Watson. I was engaged in some small matter of business that February, a paltry affair of little interest but necessary pecuniary return, the most memorable aspect of which was the sheer cunning with which the malefactor had succeeded in erasing all direct evidence against himself (though the resultant trail of tampering that cried out “evidence was removed” was blatant enough). While in the guise of Basil-the-coachman, I rounded a corner and found myself on an unavoidable collision course with a too-thin, ex-army doctor walking much faster than a man in his condition really ought, despite the impending onset of dusk and fog and his therefore obvious desire to hasten indoors. He pitched headlong into my arms, apologizing courteously and righting my hat (knocked askew by the impact) before extricating himself, excusing himself a second time, and hurrying past. I continued on my way – it seemed an incident of no moment – and saw my case to a satisfactory conclusion by the following morning.

It was nearly a week later that I encountered the gentleman again. It was a near miss, he stepping backwards from perusing a posted restaurant menu and placing himself again, to all appearances unintentionally, into my path, causing me to veer sharply aside to avoid a second mishap. I found myself struck again (though less physically) by something in the manner of this wounded veteran, dressed more expensively than he surely could afford for long in his current state of unemployment. I observed him narrowly for the remainder of the day, following him through a leisurely luncheon at the small bistro, for a walk (punctuated by long spells of rest on several benches) along the lake in St. James's Park, into a small shop for the purchase of a half dozen monogrammed handkerchiefs, along the Strand for a tedious quantity of window-shopping, and ultimately back to his hotel, where I ascertained that his room was second from the end of the hall on the first floor, Villiers Street-side. Judicious questioning of a youthful chambermaid increased my knowledge of the person now known to me as Dr John H. Watson to the extent that he had been resident there some six months, steadily regaining his health and distributing generous tips all the while, and that he was unlikely to reemerge this evening, having already been served his tea.

I retreated to my lodgings and mended the pitiful fire my landlady had condescended to light in anticipation of my return. Lighting a pipe, I settled in and proposed to contemplate this inexplicable attraction to so straightforward and unremarkable a character as the not-so-mysterious Dr Watson. He was as stolid, ordinary, and respectable a citizen as one could hope to meet. _Too_ ordinary, perhaps? Suspiciously so? Apart from the highly unlikely event of two such similar encounters between us, I rather thought not. His unconsciousness of being followed, the genial aimlessness of his wanderings that afternoon, his… his overall innocence – no, these were free from any possibility of affectation. Had we met before? I could think of no circumstances under which our paths might have crossed. No, he was a stranger. With nothing strange about him. I put him out of my mind and traded pipe for pen as I moved on to a pretty problem concerning the haemoglobin experiment I had been working at for several days in the hospital laboratory. Retiring in the small hours of the morning, the breath of a question drifted across my mind, the merest suggestion of worry over what might become of Watson should he come to overspend his limited funds. “Rubbish!” I cried aloud, smiling to myself. What an amusing mental picture, to imagine that correct and upstanding individual turning to a life of crime. And what foolishness it would be, to continue watching him to see whether he would. I put all thoughts of the good doctor firmly out of mind and went to sleep.

I arrived early at the laboratory the next morning, intent on testing the revisions to my experiment, my mood as bitter as the over-brewed tea that had accompanied my breakfast.

“All right, Holmes?” Stamford greeted me, stopping briefly by the lab mid-morning. “How goes your search for new rooms?”

“Oh, the search is all very well; I have found some, as a matter of fact. Now it is a matter of finding someone to share the rent, as it seems one must choose between comfort in lodgings and comfort in cost.”

I proceeded with my work, and by early afternoon was rewarded with success. I had just verified the results when the laboratory door opened. I looked round to see Stamford again, accompanied by, of all people, the very same Dr Watson in whom I had determined I had no interest. This intriguing development palled beside the importance of my discovery of the haemoglobin-triggered re-agent, which I immediately demonstrated for their benefit, though their enthusiasm left something to be desired. I re-focused my attention on Dr Watson as our mutual acquaintance introduced him as a potential room-mate. How fortuitous. And how very suggestive, that this individual who had so carefully positioned himself in such a way as to draw my attention now sought to share the very suite of rooms I had just bethought myself to remove to. Clearly my intuition had not led me astray – I had overlooked something to do with this matter, and proposing to go in for rooms together would provide a perfect opportunity to find it out.

Three weeks later I paid a visit to Mycroft.

“You mean to say there is nothing? Not a whisper, not a gap, not an hour unaccounted for?”

“The closest thing to an unsavoury connection your friend has is a third cousin who runs a ‘ladies’ boarding-house’ in Bristol.”

“His curiosity about my work...”

“Is understandable, considering how little else there is to fill his time, and even justified, considering your fondness for cultivating enigmas.”

"Mycroft, you know my opinions on the subject of coincidence."

"This may very well be the exception that proves the rule. And," he added, carefully keeping his eyes on the decanter from which he was refilling his glass, "My dear Sherlock -- do permit me to say that I fully approve."


End file.
